Isn't it inviting, open legs holding Jaws of Life, snake tongues ripping forth shoving hallucinations into its thighs,

Glitter smacks the inner walls of the Metallic womb; here is where the babies go, soft shredded skin, draping upon the engine,

No child will cry tonight when resting inside Sharon’s thoughts, no child will cry, They'll all laugh at the comedy that is realism,

What better suits a jagged toothed slit then braces that rim it's mouth, exploring found nothing but a bleeding throat baking with odium,

Say it's not so, that wasn't just an image, tell me her voice blared through the real air, piercing the tips of the dogwood,

Counting back days devoted to prayer which clearly befriended the fruit of vice, Echoes are only heard from the screaming, unhappy Vagina, There are no smiles here, only the ones she built within, a tin can crotch, with a puppet's fingers, how sad to watch it melt away,

Especially since dear Sharon cannot breathe, I'm sorry, she has nothing to say.